From a cat’s purr-spective: Column in the Oct. 25, 2011, Tomahawk Leader:

By TypoTomahawk LeaderOffice Cat

More than a few stopping by at the Tomahawk Leader office recently have pointed out how I’ve put on a few pounds as of late.

“Aren’t you a fat cat?” one lady repeatedly asked while visiting the office the other day. Some go and get friends and children to point out how my belly overhang is getting dangerously close to dragging on the ground when I walk. People have even stopped bringing in treats that once were a mainstay of my diet. Winter weight, I’m changing into a long hair, people just aren’t buying my failed attempts at purr-suasion.

Along with my weight, many have been asking me why my column hasn’t been appearing in the paper much lately. Don’t believe the rumors, I tell them. I haven’t entered rehab for an out-of-control catnip problem, and I haven’t been attending the Wall Street rallies going on around the country – I don’t get into politics much, unless it’s trying to rally support to get rid of that “offensive” dog scarecrow PAWS to THINK created and placed outside the office in an effort to raise funds for pets in need. Pets in need? Hello, I haven’t had a treat in almost two days!I’ll admit it. The real reason for my belly and lack of print is I’ve been hanging around Tomahawk Leader columnist Mark Gaedtke a lot lately. After nearly shooting me a month ago in an understandable case of “mistaken cougar identity,” Gaedtke and I befriended each other after realizing how much we share in common. Neither of us has a very strong grasp of the English language. We’ve both had problems with dogs going to the bathroom in places where they’re not supposed to – I still meow out loud when I think back to that column he wrote a while ago about his un-trainable dog and his rug. LMTO – that’s “laughing my tail off” for all of you texters out there. Oh yeah, and we both really like watching Wisconsin sports. On a side note, fret not all you would-be venison stew targets out there. My simply being here to this day is a testament to his aim. It’s still just as accurate as it was last gun deer season.

Getting back to the matter at hand, which is kind of ironic since I only have paws, my “Budha” pouch belly shouldn’t be frowned upon, but instead, should be looked at as a testament to how well our Wisconsin sports teams have been performing as of late. Turns out catnaps tucked between filling my face while watching the Badgers and Packers dismantle their opponents, although being quite enjoyable, isn’t exactly the healthiest lifestyle. Mark, I can call him by his first name now since we’re such good friends, described my new way of life as couch potatoesque. Not that I want to bring his dear wife, Patti, into this, but Mark said he’s figured out a number of ways to trick her into thinking he’s doing housework while he actually loafs on the couch watching sports all day long. Like Green Bay Packer quarterback and superstar Aaron Rodgers, Mark has been masterfully throwing zingers to Patti while I’ve been learning his extensive playbook to get out of work.

It’s been the cat’s meow, watching the Packers and Badgers roll while the Brewers competed for a shot at the World Series for the first time in almost 30 years. But just like the Brewers’ wonderful season, all good things must come to an end. Patti put two-and-two together when the lawn didn’t get mowed, the fence didn’t get fixed and other household chores went ignored for over a month, and my boss at the paper started asking questions when cobwebs began overspreading my computer a couple weeks back.

I called Mark the other day and he said he was just about done fixing that fence. I thought about offering my help when he offered me even more “expert” advice. Turns out he regularly visits the gym, which is why he could still perform physical labor while I was experiencing labored breathing from just talking on the phone.

What a year it was for the Brewers. Hopefully the Badgers and Packers continue on their purr-fect seasons. Mark graciously agreed to show me his tricks to dropping the weight, and I think I’m going to take him up on it. Not that the deer or I have anything to worry about, but it would be nice if he would stop shooting at me when I go over to watch the games on the weekends.

It seems that hardly a week goes by when I’m not called upon to put out yet another brush fire around the hallowed halls of the Tomahawk Leader. And for once it has nothing to do with that Irish Lilliputian, Larry Tobin. This past week I was the victim of an unwarranted attack on my good name by none other than Typo, the office cat.

To be fair I must admit that the little rascal has added a certain element of style which had been greatly deficient around the office prior to his arrival. I can even empathize with Typo’s discomfort at having to suffer fools who will talk openly about personal matters such as another person’s/cat’s weight. In fact, I have been putting on some extra “fur” myself in hopes of surviving yet another Wisconsin winter. (If Typo can call it “fur” I don’t see why I shouldn’t be afforded the same consideration.) Unfortunately, I too live in an environment where treats have been restricted due to an undeniable increase in winter fur.

As far as the shooting incident goes, that was all just a big misunderstanding. I’d been having had a few soda pops with the boys and during the course of the night we pulled out our firearms as we always do. It seems Typo thinks quite a bit of himself if he truly believes he could be mistaken for a cougar. Last time I checked, a cougar’s belly does not drag on the ground. You see, that “cougar” business is an excellent example of the kind of gross exaggeration I can’t bear to read in someone else’s column. As one who always prides himself on writing a true and accurate portrayal of life, I find Typo’s constant hyperbole wholly offensive. So in the name of quality writing, I shot at him. Just a little bit. Trust me; if I wanted to see Typo ventilated he would be ventilated. I don’t mind it when a cat says I don’t have much of a grasp of English language. Cats are opinionated that way. But when one accuses me of being a bad shot, well, them’s fighting words.

I admit Typo and I do hang out sometimes. (Not literally) But Tomahawk’s an intimate little town and those of us who live life in the fast lane often end up running into each other. It’s totally understandable. We both write columns and we’re both somewhat unreliable when it comes to deadlines. It’s like he was saying the other night after more than a few nips, “Those cats over at the Leader office just don’t dig me, man. I am an artist, and you can’t just open up a package of creativity and throw it out there like a can of hash. That reminds me; I just got some good stuff from a friend last week. You wanna go back to . . .”

Yeah, it breaks my heart but Typo does have a cap nip problem. It seems like a cat gets just so famous and then nobody can tell him anything. I’m sure many of you will remember how he got totally strung out at the community awards dinner last year, wrestled the microphone away from the Master of Ceremonies, mewed some gibberish about the English Democrats for ten minutes and then proceeded to throw a up a small chickadee into the guacamole dip. Frankly, I’m afraid for him. He’s really let himself go in the past few months. He doesn’t even use the bathroom anymore like the rest of us. Believe it or not he’s got a little box of sand in his office, (Which, by the way, is much nicer than mine!) and he just goes in there. Gross, right? Keep this to yourself, but the whole gang over at the Leader is considering a cat nip intervention. I didn’t want to get involved and would have been willing to “let it ride” and hope that he’d pull out of it himself until last Saturday night over at the Tobin’s house when he hit on my wife. She told him that if her husband didn’t start shedding a little fur she might just be interested.